


Peace

by lookimadeahat



Series: Canon Complaint Character Studies [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Gotham (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Character Study, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19203247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookimadeahat/pseuds/lookimadeahat
Summary: “And you don’t have to take a beating tonight. I can take it for you. Just let me take over for a little bit. You won’t have to be there for the assault, and you can get some rest. Doesn’t that sound nice?”Had he had more energy, Ed might have found his saccharine timbre condescending, but he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to let the other-him take over. But he was so tired. And he hadsucha headache all of a sudden. “How do I know you won’t do something I’m not okay with? How do either of us know you can even ‘take over’? I don’t think this is a good idea. I can’t control it and I don’t want—”“Ed, don’t worry. You can trust me,”the hallucination promised,“Youneedrest. Let me do this for you.”...There was something off about his grin, but Ed was too tired to decipher it, slipping away from his control on his own body, falling slowly into a black cavern of darkness and silence, then...nothing.*****************Trigger Warning! - Contains references to suicide attempts and a depiction of something that could be triggering to those with suicidal tendencies. Please proceed with caution.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to The Genius Next Door, and builds off of the Epilogue (Chapter 3). It can be understood without it, but is more enjoyable and takes on a different meaning if you've read it, so I recommend reading it beforehand.
> 
>  
> 
> **Final Warning: Trigger warning regarding the discussion of suicide, suicide attempts, and a brief description of something that looks like a suicide.

✥✵✥

Ed woke up in his bed. He didn’t remember getting into bed. He grabbed his glasses and sat up to survey his surroundings.

He was tucked under his green and brown quilt, though it was so crumpled around his body that it barely touched the mattress. He was clad in his undershirt and light green boxers with white stripes–not his usual sleeping attire–and his clothes from the night before were nowhere to be seen. He shoved the quilt off and stood up.

Ed had never even had a sip of alcohol before, but he was pretty sure he had a hangover. The worst hangover in the history of mankind. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all, his body was sore and stiff, the room was spinning, and to say he had a mild headache would be an understatement comparable to calling the iceberg that sunk the Titanic a _mild inconvenience._

All he managed to do for a good five minutes was stand perfectly still. When he took his first step, Ed let out a small groan of discomfort but managed to fight through the pain and continue walking over to his dresser. He bent down to retrieve pajama pants from a drawer and the resulting rapid increase in the speed at which the room was spinning convinced him that pants and his undershirt would have to do for now. As he tied his pants, he looked over to the small clock on the other side of the room: **9:49 AM.** Ed balked. He had not slept past seven in the morning in nearly three years. ‘Oh dear,’ he thought in a panic, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. What day of the week is it?’ He dashed over to the calendar hung beside his door.

“Saturday,” he said aloud through an exhale of relief, “Thank goodness.”

Suddenly the dizziness was back again with a vengeance, and Ed was immediately grateful for the door behind him as he braced himself against it to get into a sitting position without falling over. As he sat on the floor, clutching his head between his knees, he wracked his brain for some sort of an explanation for his current condition.

What was the last thing he remembered? Okay. He was at the library working on the final project for Physics. What happened after that, though? Why couldn’t he remember?

“Think, Ed, _think,_ ” he murmured, pressing his fingers into his temples. After several minutes of struggling, the memories came hurtling towards him at full speed.

◈

He was finishing up the notes he needed for his physics project. He hadn’t wanted to rent the book when he only needed a few notes from one of the pages, because he felt like it was a waste of money–well, that and he was afraid of the beating he’d get if his father found out he’d spent his money on something as ‘useless’ as a book. God forbid Ed used the money he earned for himself. No. He was supposed to use it to sponsor Harold Nashton’s alcohol addiction...and purchase food and anything else his father’s unemployment checks didn’t cover. After he put the book back on the shelf, he decided to walk by the ‘Today in Waterbury’s History’ display on his way out. The library had a display where each day they’d showcase three local newspapers from a previous year: one from five, one from ten, and one from twenty years before the current date. Ed had always found it a rather charming way to keep the city’s history alive, even if people rarely paid attention to it. He skimmed the pages of the paper from twenty years ago–apparently there had been a rather large fire in a warehouse, but no casualties thanks to a particularly loud dog who alerted to the need for help. He skimmed the pages from the paper from ten years ago–it didn’t contain anything noteworthy, as was true with most of the papers on most of the days. As he was skimming through the paper from five years ago, he froze. Was that really today?

“May 20th,” he muttered, “Oh my God. How did I forget? May 20th.”

He could feel the tears bubbling up behind his eyes, threatening to spill over. His hands started to shake as he looked down at the newspaper. The article he had stopped on had two photos beneath its title, both in black and white. The first was of a smiling, dark-haired young woman at the county fair, holding up an ice cream cone for the small, bespectacled child she had perched on her hip. The second was of the front of a very familiar townhouse, cops milling about in front of it and a stretcher carrying a body bag at the bottom of the steps leading to the door. In big, bold letters the article title read:  
**‘Local Waterbury Woman Dead at 32.’**  
Ed gritted his teeth as he let his eyes roam down the page to read the first paragraph. He didn’t know why he was reading it. He knew what it would say.

**‘32-year-old Lore Nashton (née Lore Schäfer) was found dead in the Nashton family residence at 7:27 this morning. She was pronounced dead on arrival. The police have not yet given an official statement about the cause of death, but sources close to the situation say that her death was most likely a suicide.’**

Ed gripped the newspaper so tight it almost ripped. Why did they have to _report_ on this? He didn’t want to keep reading. He couldn’t do that to himself. He couldn’t deal with the feelings reading on might stir up. Who was he kidding? The emotions were already there, brewing just under the surface, waiting patiently to spill over the second Ed was alone again. Inexplicably, he found his eyes drifting down again, skipping to the last paragraph of the article.

**‘Lore will be remembered for her charity efforts for Waterbury’s homeless and elderly. Despite leaving town often to take care of an ill relative, she still devoted her time when home to the members of our community, and for that we will be eternally grateful. Lore is survived by her loving husband, Harold Nashton, and her 13-year-old son, who will not be named in order to maintain his privacy.’**

_“As if they couldn’t figure it out,”_ a voice behind Ed’s shoulder scoffed. He spun around to see find the voice’s owner, but saw no one, aside from one of the elderly librarians behind the checkout desk several feet away. Besides, she was a woman and the voice was decidedly male. Ed shook his head—he must have imagined it. The stress of seeing the article was just getting to him; that was perfectly reasonable. That was all. 

He looked back at the newspaper. He couldn’t read it anymore. He _couldn’t._ But he wanted to have it—just in case he needed it in the future. The library wouldn’t miss it, right? He cast a brief glance back at the librarian. Her back was turned to him as she sorted through a stack of books, probably organizing them before closing time in thirty minutes. As if of its own volition, Ed’s hand slid the newspaper into his backpack, slow and quiet...and then the librarian turned around and saw him.

“What are you doing?” she called out in an accusatory tone as she walked around the desk to approach him.

Ed froze, the newspaper sticking out of his backpack. His eyes grew wide. He felt like he couldn’t breath. “Um…”

The librarian grew closer. Ed knew from her stern expression that he was about to get in a lot of trouble. Maybe he could talk his way out of it. Ed wasn’t exactly known for his silver tongue, but perhaps she’d take pity on him or something. He tried to open his mouth to formulate an excuse, or at least any semblance of an intelligent thought, but sound refused to come out.

“What is your name, young man?”

“Edward...Nashton,” he gulped. ‘Why did I answer her?!’ he thought in a panic.

“You need to put that back immediately, Edward,” she ordered in a condescending tone as she neared him, “Then, I’ll call your parents or the police. I’m not trying to be difficult, but you need to learn your lesson young so you don’t go on to make poor decisions in the future, alright?” She looked over Ed, waiting for some sort of a response, but received none. “How old are you?”

Before Ed could fully process what he was doing, he finished shoving the newspaper in his backpack, pushed her out of the way, and darted out the door in one quick movement. He was vaguely aware of her shouting after him, but he didn’t look back. He just kept running. 

◈

Ed jolted up, his head immediately protesting as dizziness overtook him and he slumped back down against the door.

The library must have called his father. His father would obviously give him one _Hell_ of a beating for stealing, even if it was just a newspaper—actually, the beating probably would have been worse if his father had seen _which_ newspaper Ed stole. That explained his head pain, the dizziness, the difficulty recalling last night, the general hangover-like feeling. He must have been knocked a little too hard by one of the blows. He examined his body to determine the extent of the damage from last night’s beating...but there were no new bruises. No new bruises, no new scrapes, cuts, or bumps, nothing that indicated _any_ new injuries, apart from the faint traces of a new bruise across his right knuckles. That didn’t make sense. His father _must_ have beat him senseless. The man would never let an excuse to hurt Ed go to waste, not that he normally seemed to feel he needed one, and he never contained his assaults to just one part of Ed’s body. Not anymore.

“Okay. Still a few more blanks to fill in,” he reasoned aloud to the empty room. “So, what happened next? What happened next? What was I doing? Oh! The library! I left the library. And...um…” He rubbed his head. Trying to remember was _not_ helping his headache.

And then it hit him.

◈

The only sound echoing through the dark spring night was feet pounding against the road as Ed ran down the vacant streets, away from the library. He was nearly halfway home when the panic truly began to set in. He heard sirens wailing in the distance, causing him to freeze in fear.

 _“Relax. They’re not for you,”_ a voice with no source admonished.

“Where are you? Why won’t you let me see you?” Ed called out to the empty street. He waited for an answer, but no reply came. “I know it was you in the library. Just come out.”

 _“Fine.”_ His phantom duplicate appeared in the corner of his eye. He glided towards Ed with a serene smile, radiating confidence and ease. As he met Ed’s eyes, he tilted his head slightly, offering a mock-pitying smile. _“Rough night, huh?”_

“How could you tell?” Ed attempted to deadpan, but found a self-deprecating laugh spill forth as he spoke anyway. He smirked at the ground for a moment before the panic from before began to rise up into his chest again. “Oh dear. Oh no. Oh _God_ no.”

_“What?”_

“I stole.”

_“Yeah. A newspaper. Waterbury better watch out, they’ve got a real criminal mastermind in their midst.”_

“First: I _could_ be a criminal mastermind if I applied myself, I just have a stronger inclination towards law enforcement,” Ed muttered defensively, “Second: You don’t understand. I gave her my name. My _real_ name. I was too stupid to realize I should come up with a lie and I gave her my name! She’s going to find us in the phone book. She’s going to call Dad and tell him and—and—” Suddenly, his heart felt like it was going to rupture. It was racing. It was _painful._ And he couldn’t breathe...or move...or speak.

 _“Ed? Ed, hey,”_ his counterfeit twin took slow steps towards Ed, moving his hands placatingly and speaking in a soft, almost parental, tone, _“Why don’t you let me take over for a little bit? A lot has happened today. You could use some rest.”_

Ed wanted to snap back at him, tell him he didn’t need any help, tell him he could manage just fine, but no noise would come out. His hands started to tremble as the horrific punishments his father would inflict on him when he got home flashed unwelcome and inescapable through his mind.

_“Ed, you need to relax, okay? Take a few deep breaths—”_

“He’s going to kill me!” Ed shouted, his whole body shaking violently, “He’s already mad that I tried to convince him to let me go to college. This stupid newspaper is just going to add onto that and that’ll be the last excuse he needs—”

_“It’s going to be alright—”_

“NO IT’S NOT! It is _never _going to be alright!” Ed could barely stand, could barely breathe. What was wrong with him?__

____

____

_“Ed, he’s not going to kill you. Who would he have to beat up if you weren’t around to be his punching bag?”_ his hallucination responded with a sad laugh.

“I can’t do it.” Ed broke down, “I just can’t do another beating. Not tonight. Not after seeing the article on Mom. Not after finding out I don’t get to escape. I should’ve killed myself. I should’ve gone through with it. Why didn’t you let me go through with it?”

 _“Don’t say that, Ed. We_ will _get out,”_ his phantom guardian soothed, _“And you don’t have to take a beating tonight. I can take it for you. Just let me take over for a little bit. You won’t have to be there for the assault, and you can get some rest. Doesn’t that sound nice?”_

Had he had more energy, Ed might have found his saccharine timbre condescending, but he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to let the other-him take over. But he was so tired. And he had _such_ a headache all of a sudden. “How do I know you won’t do something I’m not okay with? How do either of us know you can even ‘take over’? I don’t think this is a good idea. I can’t control it and I don’t want—”

 _“Ed, don’t worry. You can trust me,”_ the hallucination promised, _“You_ need _rest. Let me do this for you.”_

The world felt so far away and Ed’s headache was thoroughly disorienting. He stumbled back, trying and failing to reorient himself with his surroundings through the thick haze. Ed sighed. 

“Okay. You’re right. But this is just for tonight. This will not be a regular occurrence,” he slurred. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. It was so hard to talk, “Promise?” he pleaded, looking up at his spectral friend with tired eyes.

 _“I promise,”_ his friend replied with a grin. There was something off about his grin, but Ed was too tired to decipher it, slipping away from his control on his own body, falling slowly into a black cavern of darkness and silence, then...nothing.

◈

‘Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh _no._ ” Ed shot up, barely managing to stay upright from the dizziness. He racked his brain, trying to remember anything that happened after that, but no memories would surface. “We need to talk,” he called out. Nothing happened. No familiar figure appeared on his bed, by the door, nothing changed. He needed to know what happened.

“Where are you?” Ed growled. He stormed out of his room, rushing to the bathroom down the hall. Ed needed to clear his head. He slammed the door and sat down on top of the edge of the tub, running his hands through his hair absentmindedly. How did this happen? It couldn’t have happened. It had never happened before. He was just panicked—that’s why he couldn’t remember. There was no way his _imaginary friend_ had _controlled_ his body. That was impossible. 

Ed took a few steadying breaths to calm himself. He walked over to the sink, turning on the faucet and splashing the cold water onto his face.

_“You’re a little old to have imaginary friends, don’t you think? Besides, we both know that’s not what I am.”_

Ed looked up at the mirror in shock. Instead of seeing his baffled expression and tired eyes reflected back at him, Ed saw a smug, chipper version of himself, hair combed neatly and dressed in a pristine button-down shirt.

“Where were you?” Ed snapped.

 _“When?”_ the reflection asked, studying its nails.

“Five minutes ago when I said we needed to talk.”

 _“Okay—You never said it was_ urgent. _”_

“What happened last night?”

_“You tell me.”_

“I don’t know!” Ed shouted, before dropping his voice, afraid his father would hear, and his hallucination smirked. “Did you—” Ed took a deep breath, “Did you... _take over_ last night?”

 _“Perhaps,”_ his other self replied with a grin.

“How? _How!_ That is not _possible!_ ”

 _“Well,_ clearly, _it is, or I wouldn’t have done it.”_

“What happened? How am I not hurt? What did Dad say? Does he know? He must know. But then how am I not hurt? What happened?” Ed demanded, all in one breath.

_“Alright, slow down. I can’t answer a million questions all at once—”_

“That is a drastic overstatement.”

 _“—So, you need to choose one,_ one, _to ask me first, then we can work it out from there.”_

Ed inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. “Okay,” he sighed, “Okay. Walk me through what happened last night.”

 _“It was pretty uneventful. You...”_ his hallucination tilted its head from side to side, trying to find suitable words for whatever had happened, _“...went to sleep...and I walked the rest of the way home. Harold was dead asleep in the living room—seemed like he’d hit the beer pretty hard last night, no liquor that I could see, though—and he had the game on. I snuck upstairs and went to bed,”_ sensing the next question, his hallucination went on, _“And I didn’t change into pajamas because the only thing I knew he’d had was beer. Those drawers creak, and you know without liquor it would have woken him up.”_

“Alright…” Ed wasn’t sure he believed him, but he didn’t have any real reason not to, other than a nagging suspicion. “...Wait. Where are my clothes?”

_“What?”_

“My clothes. From last night. I didn’t see them in my room.”

_“Oh. Those. I threw them out before I went inside.”_

“Why?!” Ed asked, incredulous.

 _“Thought it’d assuage your fears about being caught for the theft of the century,”_ his duplicate replied smugly, _“You really shouldn’t have started with a newspaper. I mean, how can you_ ever _top that? You reached the peak of your career on your first crime,”_ he tutted in mock-disappointment. 

“That’s not funny.”

_“I disagree.”_

Ed huffed and shut his eyes, rubbing them hard. “I don’t need you anymore. Can you just go to...wherever it is you go? I need to make us breakfast, and I don’t want you distracting me and making me burn the eggs. Besides, I think it will be best if I face Dad alone.”

The hallucination’s lips quirked into a sly smile, _“I recall you singing a different tune last night.”_ The self-satisfied manner in which he made his remark earned him a glare from Ed, so he continued on, _“I doubt he’ll manage to choke out a word this morning. There were a_ lot _of bottles lying around last night. But...I suppose I’ll acquiesce. I’m not fond of cooking.”_

The hallucination faded away in the mirror, morphing into Ed’s own reflection. 

Ed finished washing up but didn't bother to dress himself in proper clothes before dashing down the stairs as quietly as he could manage. He slid smoothly around the corner, heading straight to the kitchen, deciding his father would likely be more amenable to not bashing Ed’s brains in if he was greeted with breakfast. He turned on the gas stove and walked over to the refrigerator to grab the eggs and bacon. There was no bacon. Ed’s shoulders sunk; he’d have to go to the basement refrigerator to get it, which meant passing through the living room. All he could do was hope his father was still unconscious.

He walked out of the kitchen, eggs in hand, towards the living room. He hoped that if he had food in his hand, his father would decide he wanted his son to be able to cook breakfast and only yell at Ed for waking him, instead of giving his son a thorough beating. As he reached the doorway of the living room, Ed noticed several empty beer bottles, and two empty liquor bottles. His father must have woken up again at some point last night and broken into the liquor stash. Well, at least he’d be less likely to wake Harold up. Unless his dad had decided to start his Saturday with liquor...then...well, that did not bode well for Ed.

Ed shut his eyes tightly and tiptoed closer to the doorway. He braced himself as he entered the room, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes. When he opened them, he didn’t see his father...until he took a few steps further into the room and turned his head to the right upon noticing something in his peripheral vision. 

He barely processed the feeling of the eggs slipping from his hand and cracking open on the floor beneath him. The room felt like it was spinning and like everything had frozen in place at the same time. Edward was completely unable to make sense of the sight in front of him.

A rope hung from the exposed rafters between the bookshelf and the wall, its ends fraying and strained. Ed’s eyes fixed on the rope, following it down, down, down, to the swaying body of Harold Nashton, limp and lifeless. 

And then Edward was being shoved, so hard it made him fall, but he didn’t hit the ground. He just kept falling, his father’s lifeless form and the world around him growing farther and farther away until he was drowning in a sea inky blackness.

✥✵✥


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whether you want to admit it or not, _I_ am the reason you are still standing here today. _I_ am the reason you survived this Hell for the past eighteen years and I will make _sure_ you survive whatever fresh Hell the next eighteen bring. So don’t tell me that I don’t have the right. I have _every_ right.”

✥✵✥

When Ed came to, he was sitting alone in the passenger seat of an unfamiliar car parked in front of the Waterbury police station, with no clue how he’d gotten there. He had no clue why he was there. He was sitting debating whether he should get out of the car and go inside or not, when the driver’s side door was yanked open and a heavy-set woman he vaguely recognized as one of his neighbors slid in.

“Alright. It’s all settled. You won’t have to go back in there,” she said, conversationally, as she turned the key in the ignition.

Ed had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but decided to go along with it for fear of her thinking he was insane. “Thank you,” he croaked, his words sounding distant and foreign to his own ears, “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I can do, kiddo. You’ve had a rough day,” she shuffled in her seat, pulling something out of her monstrous cavern of a purse. “They gave me your dad’s belongings...if you want them.”

Ed stared blankly at the plastic bag, clearly marked **Evidence** , being offered to him. His neighbor—Mrs. Holloway! That was her name—seemed to have grown uncomfortable with his prolonged silence, opting to awkwardly place the bag in his lap.

Something about the light but startling pressure of the bag triggered a horrifically vivid vision of his father’s dead body, hanging from the rafters in their living room. _That’s_ why he was here. 

“Oh dear,” Ed breathed, heart pounding in his chest as the air was vacuumed from his lungs. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry or scream. Harold Nashton was dead. His _abuser_ was dead. But, abusive or no, he was still Ed’s father. His father who he would never see again, except for, maybe, in a casket. Ed was barely eighteen and an orphan. He stared straight ahead, willing his emotions to subside until he had some privacy.

“Oh, Edward, I’m so sorry this happened to you. First your mother and now your old man. It isn’t fair,” Mrs. Holloway attempted to comfort, gently patting Ed’s knee as she spoke, “Are you sure you want to go home? Back to that house?”

The question broke Edward from his trance. “I’m not,” he answered honestly.

“Do you have anywhere else you can go?” she inquired.

“No.” He knew there was nowhere for him to run other than home or away from Waterbury, and he didn’t have the resources to do the latter.

Mrs. Holloway didn’t seem to know what to do with that answer. She fiddled with the keys, tentatively placing her foot on the gas only to pull it away before the car could move. “Um…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Holloway,” Ed said, forcing himself to stay in the moment, “I didn’t mean to...I can go home. I’d like you to take me back to my house...please.”

She let out an audible sigh of relief when Ed took the burden of deciding what to do with him off of her. ‘A _burden._ Funny,' Ed thought to himself as the tears in his eyes began threatening to spill over more insistently, ‘That’s exactly what I am.’

 _“Oh, poor Ed. Better make sure you don’t cry. We wouldn’t want the woman who heard your cries through the drywall for years and did nothing to help to think you weak, now would we?”_ his hallucination taunted, materializing in the back seat of the car.

“Shut up,” Ed muttered under his breath, “Go away.”

“What’d you say, dearie?” Mrs. Holloway asked as she pulled out of the parking lot, blissfully unaware of the apparition grinning maliciously behind her.

“Nothing!” Ed replied, far too quickly, as the mocking cackles of his spectral tormentor rang throughout the car.

✥✵✥

Edward ran up the steps to his townhouse, slamming the door behind him and slumping against it. The treacherous tears that had been promising to escape and expose his weakness for the entirety of the drive home finally flowed freely, cascading down his sharp cheeks like a waterfall over jagged rocks. His shoulders shook with the force it, and he felt so utterly small and alone. He already missed his dad. _Having_ a dad.

“How am I so unbelievably pathetic?” he cried to the empty room, “The man who beat me within an inch of my life on multiple occasions dies and I’m _sad?_ What is wrong with me?”

_“Glad we’re on the same page.”_

Ed raised his head slowly to meet the familiar eyes he knew would be waiting for him. His hallucination was standing in front of him, casually leaning against the wall, hair combed neatly and clad in a pair of dark green trousers and a white short-sleeved button down with navy blue stripes, the embodiment of everything Ed was not at the present moment: calm, clean, confident, and composed. It infuriated Ed.

“I suppose I should thank you for leaving me alone for some of that trip,” Ed begrudgingly admitted through clenched teeth as he dried his eyes, “But it’d be a lot easier if you could have just left me alone for all of it. Or better yet, you could leave me alone for the rest of my life now that Dad is gone.”

_“The less of me you have, the harder I am to hold. What am I?”_

“Your breath,” Ed replied automatically.

 _“Correct!”_ his phantom foe replied with a delighted smile, _“Don’t hold your breath. If your lung capacity is anything like Harold’s you’ll be six feet under pretty quickly.”_

“...Did you... _kill_ Dad?” Ed asked in a shaky voice.

The specter looked at him with a furrowed brow and penetrating gaze for several moments; there was something about it that made Ed uneasy. Finally, the phantom broke the silent tension as he replied with a laugh, _“No! What on earth would make you think that?”_

“You just said...about his lung capacity…”

 _“God, Ed. It was a_ joke. _What? Just because the asshole died I can’t make a joke about him?”_

“I think it’s a little insensitive, considering he died _today_ and you’re making a joke about his _cause of death,”_ Ed spat. He paused for a moment, then softened. “You promise you didn’t kill him?” Ed implored weakly.

 _“Trust me, the last time I saw Harold, the only thing he was suffocating on was his own incompetence.”_ he replied, tone more biting than comforting, but what evidence did Ed have that he was lying beyond a joke made in poor taste?

“Okay,” Ed nodded, accepting the reply—mostly because he was running too low on energy and emotions to try to push that specific part of the conversation any more. Not when he had other things he wanted to know. Besides, it was absurd for him to think, even for a moment, that his _hallucination_ could have killed his father. His father died because he had been a troubled man who saw death as the only escape from what he perceived to be a bleak situation; Ed’s childhood imaginary friend who sometimes showed up when Ed experienced significant emotional distress to offer his ‘assistance’ did not and _could not_ kill his father. Though this reflection of himself was often dark, it wasn’t dark enough to do something like that. He didn’t do it...but he did do _something._ Ed's ire was triggered again, seeping into his words, “Then what _did_ you do?”

 _“I beg your pardon?”_

“You said you didn’t kill him, but I know you did _something._ I’m missing time, just like I was last night! What did you do?” he snapped, bitter tears starting to fall from his eyes again.

 _“Relax, Ed. Don’t get all choked up,”_ his hallucination replied, smugly.

“DON’T!” Ed shouted, “You don't get to talk down to me! You don’t get to do _this._ ”

_“Weren’t you just saying how pathetic it was for you to be grieving your abuser?”_

“I—It’s different...You—Stop trying to change the subject! I asked you a question. So, tell. Me. What. You. Did.” Ed demanded, unable to mask the angry quiver in his voice.

The hallucination rolled his eyes, _“God, so demanding. Fine. I took over. Is that what you want to hear?”_

“Why did you think you had _any_ right to—”

 _“Because you were about to have a mental breakdown, Ed!”_ he shouted. That was enough to make Ed shut up. Ed had never seen his hallucination show so much...emotion before. _“You were panicking. You were hurting. And the only reason I’m_ here _is to save you from the pain. Harold caused you pain, and now he is gone. And, thanks to me, you didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of that._ I _called the police to come pick up the body,_ I _answered the questions when the police took us down to the station, and_ I _saved you the_ trauma _of having to remember the feeling of holding your father’s lifeless body in your arms._ I _did all of that because I_ protect _you! Whether you want to admit it or not,_ I _am the reason you are still standing here today._ I _am the reason you survived this Hell for the past eighteen years and I will make_ sure _you survive whatever fresh Hell the next eighteen bring. So don’t tell me that I don’t have the right. I have_ every _right.”_

Ed stood in shocked silence, staring at the figure before him. His hallucination was noticeably shaking from emotion, and, somewhere in his speech—his _explanation_ —he had changed to be Ed’s true reflection. Lines of exhaustion etched into his glistening skin as the muscles in his gaunt figure rippled with his efforts to suppress further sentiment, visible through the tank top and pajama pants—the mirror image of Ed’s current attire—his earlier clothes had morphed into. And in that moment, Ed understood. Ed _accepted._ They both knew it wouldn’t last forever, but for now they had some semblance of peace. And that was all they wanted: Peace.

✥✵✥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! I always appreciate feedback, so if you have something to say about this, please let me know.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> For anyone who was curious or confused, the name 'Lore' is German and is pronounced very similarly to the way English speakers pronounce 'Laura.'


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